


The Importance of Literacy

by LunaIris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Government Agencies, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Triggers, johnhasissues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaIris/pseuds/LunaIris
Summary: My name is John Watson, and I'm a victim of depression.-- John Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet in the most uncanny of places: Baker Psych Ward in St. Barts Hospital. With John's fascinating past and the uncertainty of the future, will they be able to not only survive the day to day at the hands of 'experts' but also thrive when half the city wants them dead?





	The Importance of Literacy

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This story isn't even near finished, but I just couldn't wait to share it with you! I love feedback and constructive criticism so please leave some. Also, I own none of these characters aha.

Chapter One

 

Pens spread onto paper, left untouched, as seventeen-year-old John Watson stared down his most recent therapist, Dr. Mike Stamford. Eyes narrowed, Watson—clad in a simple pair of blue scrubs, surrounded by a hospital issued robe—said again: "No."

The therapist in question was at his wit's end. Slightly overweight, with much too small glasses on his oversized head, he strained his self-control so as not to roll his eyes at his young patient Mike Stamford politely spoke again, "Please Mr. Watson—"  
"John."  
"Alright John, write down anything you want. About anything you wish. I truly think that this will assist in your recovery, with your head in those books all the time."

"No." Stamford had to admit; this one was stubborn. And stubborn patients such as these—completely devoid yet utterly full of life—is the reason he studied psychology. He was digging into the human mind to see what made people tick, and how one so bright could fall so far as a pure emotion or thought. However, instead of pushing, as he knew other therapists did, Stamford did the one thing the hospital wouldn't. Give John a Choice. The idea of Choice in a situation such as this was a huge trust factor, especially so early into a patient's treatment, but Stamford could see the boy's resolve in his eyes and knew this had to be a decision made by John rather than his more than helpful psych team. Sliding the mess of pens on top of the white notepad towards John, Dr. Stamford stood up.  
"I'll leave this in your hands then. See you in two days." He then strode to the door to let his patient out. John scrambled, upholding the mash of stationary to his chest—and stormed out of the room. Stamford shut the door and wearily sat back in his chair.

Watson would be back: they always came back.

\--

Sitting at his laptop, Mike documented John's session, carefully omitting the emphasis of John's writing ability, because he was confident that next session, there would be written notes, John asking politely for them to be private, and Mike letting him because he knew it would help. Alongside his case on John, Stamford pulled up Amazon, swiping through various leather notebooks.

After a few hours, his door opened again for his 2 o'clock. As the young man walked in and sat down, Dr. Stamford began to start his never-ending battle of the teenage brain once more.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, I'm Dr. Stamford, and I'll be your therapist here in Baker."

"Call me Sherlock."

-

In the sanctuary of his room—single as of now, no mate had been stuck in here with him, yet—John began to study the stationary, as well as the pens. Most things were kept locked up from the use of patients without a proper sitter (or staff member, as they are the same), including, and most damningly, pens and other sharp utensils. Which included: forks, knives, spoons, straws, pens, pencils, hair clips, bobby pins, any sort of cosmetic appliance really, as well as the rest of the writing utensils including makers, crayons, etc. For a good reason, these objects were kept away.

John quickly thought to himself, ‘I could stab my bloody eyes out with these. Or slit my wrists'. John turned the pen over in his hand, surveying the gleam the artificial light from the room reflected off its surface. ‘They would find me sitting here in bed, normal as ever, except for two pens sticking out of my eyes.' John snorted at this, still turning the pen in his hands. However, instead of doing any of these things, John instead slipped one of the pens under his mattress and moved into the activity room—where one could've usually found him before his more recent breakdown —and grabbed the table nearest the window to sit with his newfound friends of pen and paper. Sitting at the table untouched was his last good read before his breakdown: Lolita by Vladimir Nakobov. Because, before his most recent decline, this was his regular seat, and the other patients usually steered clear of it.

In the bright sunroom, a few other patients milled about. First was Bonnie, quietly knitting in the corner mumbling to herself. Looking at her John formed a medical summary in his head.

Name: Bonnie Milton

Age: 13's

Description: Average weight, around 5' 1", brown hair and brown eyes.

Diagnosis: Schizophrenia

Summary: Bonnie was a sweet enough gal, but she screamed at the walls often. Very cinematic, and very worrying for Nurse Hooper who was glancing at her worriedly even now from the faculty desk. Bonnie was generally kind, but when she was having an episode, she was cruel, shouting at the air around her and beating her fists on the walls until they bled.

Aside from her, the only other patient in the room was Sebastian Moran, a quiet sort of fellow who at this point was staring out the window. Assessing him quietly within his mind John concluded:

Name: Sebastian Moran

Age: 20

Description: Bearded, with darker hair. Slim yet muscular, around 5' 10 or 5' 11'.

Diagnosis: Psychopath…probably.

Description: Moran was one of the quietest of the patients on the floor, aside from John himself. He seemed to have psychopathic tendencies, and deep anger management issues, regarding that one time he throttled Mr. Simmons so bad he was moved from the floor and into intensive care. Why he was on the pediatric floor at age seventeen never eluded John, seeing as Sebastian had been here a long time. Refused to leave, and when prompted reacted violently.

After accessing his surroundings, John spread his mustard yellow legal pad out in front of him and stared at it.  
‘Why even write anymore?' He thought to himself, absentmindedly turning the pen over in his hands, ‘Because it relaxes you.' He answered himself. ‘Maybe the therapist is right, you can just ask him not to read it. I suppose.' This talking to himself thing is weird.  
Picking up the black pen with the St. Bartholomew's Hospital logo on it, began to do as his therapist so kindly asked for. He began to write. First, he dated the top of the paper with March 13th, 2018 and continued with:

_My name is John Watson, and I'm a victim of depression._

The pen scratched against the paper annoyingly, and John snapped it, startling Nurse Hooper again who began to get up before John smiled kindly at her and threw the shattered pieces to the side. With the smile the Nurse visibly relaxed—John was never of the troublesome sort. Picking up another that Stamford gave him John continued:

_Well, that's wrong. An over-exaggeration really, as I am a victim of nothing but my circumstances, of which depression may happen to be a side effect. As well as panic attacks, and another plethora of symptoms which all led back to my past. To be completely honest, I may not be a victim at all. Just a person, who was living their life, and then one day decided they wanted to end it._

_I hate the word victim. It's scrawled across psychologists' notebooks, every single one I've seen as if I'm some trauma patient. Shocker: I'm bloody not._

_Trapped in the walls of this pediatric psychiatric wing, I'm unfortunately forced to suffer here until I find the right words to say to a therapist so they'll let me out._

Maybe he should keep that bit to himself since nothing was private here anyway. John scribbled out his last sentence.

_~~I'm unfortunately forced to suffer here until I find the right words to say to a therapist so they'll let me out.~~ The government is paying for my treatment, at my sister's wishes, because of our extenuating circumstances, and a properly placed hand on Harry's part._

_I'm uncertain I even want to leave._

_Why am I even writing on this bloody stationery; my thoughts onto paper as if they didn't make sense already in my head? I didn't try to kill myself because I was confused, I tried to kill myself because I wanted to die._

_I'm no J.K Rowling, Thomas Hardy, or Vladimir Nakobov (although for that last one I'd only ever read Lolita): I'm just a stupid sod who wanted to get out of his situation._

_Heh, good job John, after reading this rubbish the doctor is most certainly going to sign your slip of sanity. You could crumple it up, throw it away, or flush it down the toilet. But, in this place, they would always find it._

_I suppose the reason is that I still have some notion in the back of my brain that, beyond all this, I could even afford medical school._

_Alas._

_My name is John Watson, and I don't believe I'm a victim at all._

 

John sighed as he ripped the page out, crumpled it and set it aside. He never thought about what he was saying when putting it on paper. Putting his head in his hands, his thoughts swirled through his mind. But one idea seemed to stick out from the rest.

When would his life stop being so utterly dull and mean something?

\--

 

Sherlock Holmes hated repetitiveness. And that's all this system was—an endless record set to repeat over and over before it drew him mad. His mother Violet Holmes rubbed his back slightly, as she signed forms for his admittance into the pediatric psychiatric ward at St. Bart's. Sherlock leaned away from the touch, but Mummy just kept moving her hand with him, as if he wasn't being admitted into a highly sophisticated psychiatric facility to try to ‘cure' him, which was the protocol after his release from rehabilitation for cocaine addiction.

Lazily he glanced at the Nurse holding all of his most precious belongings and began to see her. To deduce. _Excellent Nurse, or at least she thinks she is with the absence of residue on her I.D badge, which dated her starting in the year 2006. So, she'd been here a while. Hopes to become involved in something else, most likely mortuary studies, looking at the indents of the latex gloves on her wrists, as well as the badge in her pocket which was partially hidden that dictated her access to the morgue below. Why was she a nurse? Family stress, love, desire…oh. Money issues. She lacked all sorts of jewelry, aside from a necklace which was given to her by a family member. Knows this because the chain is clean, but the letters on the back had been rubbed off from the constant nervous twitch of rubbing it, which equals to sentiment. Family rather than a boyfriend, because of the lack of ring, or other jewelry (previously mentioned) but mostly an educated leap—not a guess—because of the way she dedicated herself to her work, no time for a prolonged attachment to a non-family member. Would need confirmation—but I'm sure I'm right. Oh, there she goes again,_ rub _, rub, rub, the nerves away. How utterly dull._ Name: _Molly Hooper._

Sherlock met her eyes once, and she seemed to slightly blush, and quickly turn back to his mother to complete the final signatures which would lock him into this place for no less than a month. This woman is at least six years his senior…attraction.

_Blush, dilated pupils. This is quite abnormal behavior, Ms. Hooper. Except it's not. She's quite too young to be serving in the teen wing, but with the shortage of staff, it's obvious why she was here. Attraction though…that could be used to his advantage._

As soon as that thought settled in his sixteen-year-old brain, Sherlock Holmes smiled at the young Nurse, who almost dropped her pen as she finished the paperwork and got up to buzz them into the next door.

"Well Sherlock, it seems you'll have a roommate. John Watson. The room is 221b. I'll walk you and your mother there and get you settled in; then you can say your goodbyes." Molly said sharply, as she walked them through the door, and buzzed another to enter the actual ward.

This place had to have been the most boring place young Sherlock Holmes had ever entered. As the door opened, the first thing he saw was the full nurses' station to his left which was near depleted of life because it was almost lunchtime. A glance at the clock: 12:00 am. There were clear glass double doors off to the left on the other side of the large hall from the nurses' station. Further down he could see the beginnings of a Cafeteria sign, and the admission that the hall went further, possibly holding some sort of library, or a session room. However, Molly turned right, and never stopped talking.

"Down this way are the patient rooms. We're in the B wing of Baker, while the adults are in A-wing. The adult wing usually doesn't intersect with ours at all, but some repairs are happening in their dining hall so, some eat in ours." Molly glanced back at Sherlock and his mother while saying, "I better show you to your room first, I think John is probably in the activity room, which means it's open." As they arrived at 221b Violet Holmes handed Sherlock his suitcase, and patted his head.

"You'll be fine darling, I'll see you in a week. Just a few months and we can move on from all this."

‘From all this.' As if Sherlock's addiction and the diagnosis was just something to sweep into the closet of skeletons which made up the Holmes' family's past.

"Yes, Mummy." And with those very stoic and polite goodbyes, Violet abandoned Sherlock in this room, in this place, just like rehab all over again. Molly moved to follow her out, after opening the door and telling Sherlock to make himself at home.

Home indeed.

Setting his suitcase on the twin nearest the door, since the other was taken, Sherlock surveyed the emptiness that filled his new space. There was no sign another even lived here apart from the haphazard books littering the floor in neat stacks against the wall as well as the chest on that side being slightly open, where clothes resided. The lamp was on, and sets of shoes were neatly placed by the side table: a pair of slippers, two pairs of trainers, and some loafers. His roommate—John Watson's—bed was neatly made, and had no piece out of place, except the corner was twisted slightly on the side furthest him.

_Interesting. Now, why would an infuriating neat freak such as this have an untidy bed?_

Walking over to the disturbed side Sherlock lifted the bed, and with that, he saw a pen and a few other miscellaneous items. Before he could genuinely grasp their shapes, the door to the room flew open.

"What the hell are you doing?! Get away from my stuff!"

The mattress was dropped, and Sherlock came face to face with his new roommate.

_ Blonde hair, blue eyes, short—much shorter than I. _

The boy's body position gave little away, other than that he was a patient and the new roommate of one Sherlock Holmes.

_ Interesting, John. Quite…fascinating. _

Behind John stood Molly, who spoke up. "John, this is your new roommate. Sherlock Holmes." She seemed to shift a bit, at the obvious tension in the room caused mostly by John. Sherlock walked casually up to him, extending his arm to the older boy. "I play the violin at all hours and can go without talking for days. New roommates must know the worst about each other."

John took his hand and snorted at him. Him! Sherlock bloody Holmes! "John Watson. If you can stay out of my things, it'll be fine."

Nurse Hooper then excused herself, and as she was retreating, mentioned that they should spend some time to get to know each other. John offered to take Sherlock to the Activity Room. To which Sherlock replied, "I'd rather not get all sweaty."

John laughed again, explaining that it was mostly an over-glorified lobby with a tv. It was a start to quite a partnership.

\--

When John Watson first laid eyes on his new roommate, his first thought—after the exclamation of his space being violated—was that Sherlock was the most attractive male he had ever met.

Wild ebony curls adorned his head, and grey-blue eyes stared back at him in relative surprise. The boy was wearing a black suit, with a pair of ridiculously expensive Italian loafers. He was slim, almost unhealthy, and when he was stretched to his full height, he was a good deal taller than John himself.

John felt his mouth dry, and the rage which resulted in his violation of privacy ebbed away to mere irritation. When the new boy,  _ Sherlock _ , spoke about his habits John couldn’t help but laugh. This boy was not only devastatingly attractive but exciting to boot.

Offering to take him to the activity room, and more importantly, his table in the corner was mostly to try to get to know him better: outside of the bedroom. ‘Oh, great! John, now you're thinking of him as a sexual partner. Fuck.’

After settling at his little table, and moving his haphazard writing supplies to the floor between his chair and the wall in one fell sweep, the first question he asked his new roommate was, "So what made the underside of my mattress so interesting?" This had been plaguing him since he knew he hid his valuables well, not even being noticed by the regular sweeps of one Nurse Hooper.

The boy in front of him glimmered as if being asked to recite the most brilliant thing, before explaining, "You are a tidy person. Your room—or now our room—is impeccably tidy. Everything in its proper place, bed made smoothly, except for the corner at the right. Because you were hiding something." Sherlock cocked his head and smiled while John's jaw dropped—eyes narrowing. "What else can you tell me about me?"

Sherlock grinned at the challenge. "Your name is John Watson, you like to write—even though you seem to hate it; probably a past issue with it—and your therapist who is now also my therapist thinks that it could help you. I'd say you're here for depression, probably a past suicidal episode spurring your family to put you in the hospital for treatment. I think you enjoy being in control, having a handle on things, seeing as you're hoarding contraband under your bed. I doubt you'd use those items, but having the ability too makes you feel in control of your life." Striking grey-blue eyes cut to the papers beside John's chair. "You want to write because it makes you feel better, but when you do you're afraid that it'll end up in the wrong hands. Control. You have a brother, as one of his notes was on your bedside table. I'd say he's the one who sent you here since you have no other familial items or other memorabilia littered around the room."

John was dumbfounded as Sherlock seemed to take in his reaction. "That was brilliant! You're a bloody genius."

Sherlock looked surprised. "That's not what people normally say."

John smiled at him, leaning back in his chair far enough for it to be on two legs, letting the back hit the wall. "And what do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

They both laughed, startling poor Bonnie with her knitting. John was indeed the only one laughing, while Sherlock gave him a small smile. John apologized to the startled Bonnie, and she answered with some mumbling before resuming. Sherlock looked up at him, blue eyes bright with excitement and asked, "Was I right?"

John nodded, "Mostly."

Sherlock looked hurt and revolted as if being threatened. "Mostly?! What did I miss?"

John smiled. "I have a sister. Not a brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's always something” he wailed, his body almost molding against the chair in the flail that further demonstrated his dismay.

At that moment Nurse Hooper walked up, informing Sherlock it was time to meet with Dr. Stamford. He glanced at John in a moment of weakness. "Words of advice?" John smirked. "Don't rip him to shreds. He doesn't seem that bad. Don't mention the snooping thing though; it might get you moved in with Seb." With that, not knowing who Seb was, Sherlock walked with Molly who led him to Dr. Stamford's office.

John picked up his book and began to read.

Why he was interested in a plethora of banned books, John didn’t have the slightest idea. They were forbidden, entertaining, and slightly controversial so he decided to go through the list while he was stuck here in Baker. Lolita was his first, and even as he turned to the last chapter, he was still dumbfounded that it had been written. There must be something more profound to it, but without internet access and no one to talk to who had also read it, he was at a standstill. Putting the now finished novel down, he stretched and realized the sun had begun to set. Walking over to Molly, who had returned from escorting Sherlock to Dr. Stamford a good bit ago, he asked for the next book on his list: Of Mice and Men. Molly laughed and said she would see if she could get it.

John settled back into his corner to keep writing. About what, he didn’t know, but as long as it stayed away from the topic of his person it couldn’t be all bad.

\--


End file.
